


Hope, Left Wanting

by Savorysavery



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Post-Despair, Romance, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6473146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savorysavery/pseuds/Savorysavery





	Hope, Left Wanting

**Summary:** At the end of the day, after all the despair, is an orgastic hope, left for us to share.

 **Rated:** Explicit/NC-17

 **Genres:** Smut, Romance

   


**Author's Note:** Lately,  _DR_ seems to always be in my head. I drive to work listening to  _Discussion -Despair vs. Hope-_ , hum  _Monomi's Practice Lesson_ in Japanese class, and think about the kids in a post-despair society. It's actually quite an amusing way to spend my time: it gives me lots of little ideas. I suppose that here's one, set in a post-despair world, where Makoto and Kyouko are husband and wife -so, most likely, in their mid-twenties, given canon- and they come home to one another. It's really just fluff, but honestly, what do my two children deserve more than hope in this world? Enjoy.

* * *

   


When Kyouko and Makoto come home together, they always go to bed first thing, bypassing meals and relaxation for the comfort of one another, for that  _precious_ bit of skinship.

First, they strip, yanking of black and white clothes, pulling off a time worn hoodie, and toss them around their small bedroom, stumbling to the futon before falling on it.

"Can I?" Makoto asks: it's always Kyouko's **right** to have her gloves on or off, and never Makoto's privilege, and when she slips them off, tossing them over her shoulders, he smiles and bring her hands to his face, pressing his cheeks into them. "Beautiful as always," Makoto whispers, and Kyouko let's out a soft gasp, presses her fingers to his lips and shudders when he licks at them, trailing his tongue over and between the digits, covering them, as much as he can, with tiny kisses when his tongue slides back into his mouth.

The mood shifts, and the sweetness wanes, and turns to kissing: hard nips on lips, tilting heads, butting noses. There's no finesse to be found, no tactful pecks or tangling tongues. It's sloppy, wet with drool and hot with desperation, and it only gets worse as they get down to skin, casting off their underclothes until all they can feel is the thrumming heat of each others skin. they both take a moment, look at each other really good: after all, it's been a while since there's been more than just plain bras and boxers covering their skin. The fact that they can see each other like this, _be_  like husband and wife, like lovers, is such a sacred thing in this moment, breaking the the heat of before.

But then it returns, a boiling burn in their bellies, and they're at one another again, shifting and sliding, grunting and rutting.

Eventually, Kyouko settles herself on Makoto's lap, cheeks a soft pink as she grips him, rising up a little. He gasps, and forces his eyes wide, watching as she lowers herself onto him, takes her inside between her slick, moist folds, clenching and flexing with each bit of him she takes in. In that moment, she's all he can see: soft, plush white skin, hands crisscrossed with scars, balancing herself precariously on his chest, and wide, purple eyes, staring down at Makoto. She becomes his whole world in that very moment, an orgastic, shining hope that has him canting his hips, sliding into her very being.

She's warm and pulsing and all _his_ , and it's nearly enough to roughly drag Makoto over the edge, ramping up his want and desire. It's bad enough that there's hardly anytime for this as of late: rebuilding a despair ridden world takes effort, takes time and physical hours and long shifts, hours that drive him into bed the moment his bowl is empty of dinner, body scrubbed dry from a bath. This special time between them breaks that routine, is a hope that Makoto so looks forward to, and the thought of being unable to savor it drives him near to  **madness.**

Surely, Kyouko feels the same, face pinched up, nose wrinkling up in concentration. Though she hasn't said anything, Makoto can  _feel_ the tension in her body, taut as a wire: he can sense that she too, is so close, driven to the edge by weeks of only soft, tame touches.

"Move," Kyouko manages to whisper, opening her eyes to narrow slits, and that's all it takes to get Makoto shifting.

He grips her wide hips, letting his fingers sink into the soft bit of plumpness that's settled there. That, he supposes, it what happens when you don't worry away your body wondering about death: you flourish a bit, and meals stick to your bones, tack themselves inside you and let your body grow. He holds tighter then, as if that's still a tenuous existence: as if, at any moment, Monokuma will barge in, cameras rolling, and send them off to another thudding execution.

Yet the hot, pulsing, slick heat of Kyouko pulls Makoto back, tethers him to the consistent rolling of her hips, the shy, slight bounce as she lifts herself up and down, her hands balled up into fists. With his right hand, he takes her, and brings it to his lips, kissing the raised scars until finally, Kyouko's eyes are open. "You okay there?" Makoto asks in a choked whisper: Kyouko very  _tactfully_ chose, right then at that very moment, to clench down, and it has him shuddering for control.

"I suppose I could ask the same of you, Naegi-kun," she replies, chuckling and flashing a white smile.  It wavers and she moans, head lolling to the left.

"I suppose you could," Makoto replies, and smiles, sucking in a deep breath as Kyouko tightens around him again. "Oh god, Kyouko, please-"

"Please what?" she asks, and when Makoto opens his eyes, she has a curiously blank look on her face. It fades quickly though, false naivety exchanged for chuckling, and she's encouraged, bouncing up and down a bit more vigorously now.

"Makoto," you say, and she raises an eyebrow. "We're married: Makoto, not Naegi. I haven't called you Kirigiri or even 'Kiri' in what, three years now?"

"How direct of you," she replies and lets out a gasp as she shifts forward, her breasts close to Makoto's face, enough that he hitches his chin and kisses her right breast, tongue gently flicking over the nipple. Clearly, she's found that  _exact_ position, and plans to ride it out, because her hips are going faster. "We're talking too much." Makoto nods in answer, eagerly agreeing: the whole point of this frenzied activity -or what was  _supposed_ to be a frenzied activity- was getting one another off, skin sliding against skin. And now, that's happening, both of them sliding together, hips meeting each other with soft  _smacks_ of skin, moans the only language between them. It's all very poetic, a solitary moment where only they two exist.

And it's **wonderful.**  

The end comes too soon, with Makoto climaxing first, pulsing inside her for an extended stretch of forever that makes his head a bit light. He feels how thick he is: it  _has_ been a long time, and he sighs, feeling somewhat relieved. It takes Kyouko only moments more before she's whimpering out a powerfully quiet orgasm, body shuddering as she clenches down on Makoto, pulling the last bits of his orgasm from him without asking. It makes them both shuddering, this intimacy, and keeps them locked together as Makoto arranges Kyouko on him, shouldering her gentle bulk as she whispers "Makoto" over and over again, a chant to tether her back down to Earth with him, to lower her steady from the spinning high of her orgasm and back into his arms.

She always looks so beautiful to him like this: her lavender hair down her back, tacked by sweat to her skin, purple eyes wide, and the wedding ring glinting on her left index finger. It's a stark remind of what hope can bring: love, fostered in the darkest of times. It makes him think of their wedding: a private affair among the portraits of their fallen friends, and the few that remained. It hits him hard in that moment, and a pang of something ricochets through his heart, making him suddenly crave Kyouko, simple as that. He takes her hand, slowly, and brings it to his lips, kissing at the scars once more until he meanders to the ring, pressing a long pause of a kiss to it, and feels at peace again, tethered alongside her. Kyouko's whole face colors, but she doesn't take her hand back, she just lays it against Makoto's cheek, let it stay there to feel the warmth of his own blush.

"I miss you so much lately," she whispers, after a beat.

"Even though we're at work together?" It's said without malice, without tease: it's just a question, hanging in the air, waiting patiently for Kyouko's answer.

"Yes. All the time," Kyouko replies. "We're never just... _alone_. We're always rebuilding." She pauses, as if trying to come up with a qualifier. "I love what we do: really love it. It's the kind of thing my father would have done. But sometimes...I want to be greedy and just have you all to  _myself_. It's quite..." Her voice trails off, embarrassment evident.

"Wonderful," Makoto whispers, and he feels a grin spread across his cheeks, a smile that breaks across all of his features. He can't contain it, and it shines, even in the dim dark of their bedroom. With a shift, Makoto feels himself slip from the waning warmth of Kyouko, feels the slightly gummy feel of come, and sighs, quite content to stay in the moment, tucked under the blankets next to his wife. "What would you like to do about it?" he asks.

Kyouko quirks a brow, then sighs, pursing her lips. "I don't know. That wasn't what I was expecting to hear next, to be quite honest."

"Well, we have the next few days off. Let's say we just spend it you and me. Maybe go somewhere new?" Makoto adds. "I want more people to show the love of my life off too. Spread some of my own brand of hope." 

Kyouko's eyes light up at that, and in her own enthusiastic way, she comes close to Makoto presses her lips to his long and hard, moving them fiercely. The kiss comes from her whole being, a solid touch that reminds Makoto of what their job  _truly_ is: it's preserving hope like this for everyone in the world.

And at the end of the day, at the end of all this, it's enough for him, so long as Kyouko is by his side.


End file.
